


Grazed Knees, Bruised Egos

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hetalia Kink Meme, M/M, World Cup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a reason why it's the world's most popular sport, the most beautiful game - and why so many hopes can ride on it. </p>
<p>(Mainly USUK, but mentions of other countries, too - I didn't feel right tagging them for just mentions, though.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grazed Knees, Bruised Egos

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on the kink meme and then reposted to LJ August 11, 2010. 
> 
> De-anoning from the Hetalia kink meme (despite this being utterly un-kinky), in which the prompt was to cover England's endless torment at the hands of the US during the world cup. For the record, I don't actually think the nation-tans would play for their teams (especially with the US super-strength), but whatever, it was fun.

  
“Heh.”  
  
“Shut the _fuck_ up,” England snapped, irritable, and without missing a beat.  
  
“I didn’t say anything!” America whined around the lip of his water bottle. The teams behind them were still reacting, being interviewed, discussing—the stadium was emptying out. There were still cheers, drowned out almost completely by the loud humming of vuvuzelas, descending on the stadium’s pitch. America shuffled along the pitch, kicking at the grass and chugging down his water bottle until empty, then grabbing at a bottle of Gatorade without even pausing for breath. Despite the boy’s whine, he still looked completely and utterly thrilled, as if he’d just beaten England by ten points and not tied. It was infuriating, to say the least.   
  
England glared daggers at America, beads of sweat clinging to his forehead and with his brow furrowed. “That was a lucky goal and you know it.”  
  
But America was still grinning that shit-eating grin of his and England felt like wrapping his hands around that stupid neck and choking him until he begged for mercy—and America never begged, which meant the stupid sod would die and England would have one less person to worry about when progressing out of the group. And for fuck’s sake he wasn’t supposed to have to worry at all when facing _the United States of America_. The US’ team was _nothing_ compared to the other American teams, and even less so in comparison to the European teams. It was supposed to be a warm-up, the easiest task for a team as _skilled_ and _amazing_ as England’s. The group was supposed to be a piece of cake. It should have been easy win, he’d been telling himself it was an easy win all along. The fact that he _hadn’t_ beaten America squarely was an obnoxious reality England had to deal with, especially in wake of all the shit-talking he’d been giving the American boy.   
  
“It was predestined you know,” America said, conversationally, drinking long and hard from his bottle, the liquid running over his lips, some of the neon yellow Gatorade drink curving down his face, meeting at the bottom of his chin, and dripping down onto his jersey.   
  
England glared at him, or, rather, the glare intensified. He’d never stopped glaring at America since the match started. “And how do you suppose that?”  
  
“Our national anthem _is_ about beating you,” America said with a nonchalant shrug, as if he was discussing the weather. “Think about it.”  
  
“ _I_ think I hate you,” England said and hated that such a statement was a complete lie—so long as America didn’t know it, though, it was fine. He tried so hard to hate the idiot.   
  
America had the audacity to laugh, though: that loud, crisp chirrup of his that always served to ignite England’s self-righteous flames of loathing. He squeezed his water bottle so tightly he feared the lid would pop off and cream himself right smack in the face—and that would only give America more reasons to be smug.  
  
“Man, I can’t believe I beat you!”  
  
“ _You didn’t beat me!_ ” England shouted. “It was a damned _tie_ , you fucker.”   
  
“It’s a win after listening to you go on for weeks about being the,” America paused for dramatic effect and added in an atrocious British accent, and even added an extended pinky as he talked into the mouth of his water bottle, “greatest team in the world—we are going all the way this year! You know, England, you say that every year.”  
  
“I hate you,” England said again.   
  
America grinned. “But hey, you didn’t do that badly. Remember 1950?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“I think you do,” America said in an obnoxious sing-song voice of his. The urge to choke him was rising at rapid speed yet again. “Beat you then. We tied now. Think of it this way, England. In sixty years you might be able to actually beat me.”  
  
And then he was grinning that grin of his, and England saw red. His logical, complacent reaction to this boiling of rage was to kick America in the stomach. The way he crumbled to the ground was most satisfying, even though America scissored his legs and used those stupidly toned legs of his to pull England to the ground, too.  
  
“Red card! Red card!” America was shouting.  
  
Struggling to get out of America’s grip, which was quickly evolving more into an American football tackle or just some kind of wrestling move, England gasped out, “We aren’t on the field anymore, everything is fair game!”   
  
And he tried to kick America again but the stupid fat fucker was too big for him and just flopped on top of England, crushing one hand beneath England. England felt it twist into a painful angle and bemoaned his fate as Constantly Crushed by a Big Idiot, despite being obviously superior in the beautiful game.  
  
America was laughing in his ear, which was even more obnoxious. “Ha ha ha! And don’t think I didn’t forget what you said to me last week!”  
  
“I don’t recall what on earth you’re talking about, clearly being in the Southern Hemisphere for so long has led you to start hallucinating. Now get _off_ me, you brute!”  
  
America rolled off him, laughing, staring up at the sky in that delirious elated face of his that caused England the (possibly irrational) desire to drop his boot on his head. He flopped a bit, and then pinned England to the ground with a heavy leg. England resigned himself to his devastating, humiliated fate and sighed into the grass, thumping his forehead against the ground a few times in ultimate agony.   
  
“You said, and I quote,” America said, and inhaled, adopting yet again the atrocious British accent that sounded more like his Texas drawl, “I hope you are properly prepared for the most humiliating, crushing defeat of your life, America. My boys are going to wipe the floor with your yanks.”  
  
“Oh my god, please go die,” England muttered into the grass.  
  
“And I believe there might have been something else. What was it? Oh right—‘suck on that.’” America laughed, pulled his leg off England and rolled over onto his stomach, stuffing his face up against England’s, who stared at him in petrified alarm. “Well, England, all I got to say to you is—SUCK ON THAT!”  
  
And then he rolled away, pushed himself off the ground, and ran away, arms outstretched like an airplanes as he went barreling into Landon Donovan and Clint Dempsey with all the force of a locomotive train. England kindly waited for the ground to swallow him whole.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
It was a while later, after the respective team talks in the locker rooms, the showers, the departure of the buses, that England and America met again—America with a cut on his cheek and bruises dotting his arms. England was in his temporary apartment, feeling quite relaxed and America, in his typical fashion, barged in uninvited and shouted out a loud greeting, jarring England from the peaceful pre-game mentality he’d worked himself into (in preparation for ninety minutes of high blood pressure). America flopped down beside England as England watched the Algeria and Slovenia game.   
  
“You know,” England said, as soon as America opened his mouth, “I don’t think the imminent taunting is really necessary.”   
  
“I wasn’t going to taunt you,” America pouted, and then relented upon seeing England’s murderous glare, “… that much.”   
  
England scoffed, stuffing his hands into his pockets and feeling completely and utterly morose and unpleasant, and having the cheerful idiot beside him did little to remedy his mood. In fact, the sunshine dumbass did nothing more than to actually depress his mood.   
  
“What’re you doing?”  
  
“I am watching our group mates,” England muttered, “Watching the competition. You’d do well not to underestimate them.”  
  
“What, like you underestimated me?”   
  
“Go fuck yourself,” England muttered. Then moaned, “I am not drunk enough for this.”  
  
America prodded England with his toe, and England slapped his foot away. America laughed, stretched out on the couch, trying to nudge England over. England refused to move, and for his efforts he was rewarded with America draping his legs across England’s lap. It was stupidly distracting, and frustrating since England had decided he was going to remain angry at America for the rest of the world cup, or, at least, until England progressed out of the group phase and America was left to cry like the little brat he was. Being so chummy complicated matters, unless England changed tactics and went for the “keep your friends close and your enemies closer” approach.   
  
“I hope you cry when you lose,” England said, after thinking about it.   
  
“That’s mean!” America laughed, and reached over to the table in front of the couch to grab one of England’s scones, chomping into it with all the force and grimaces of a true hero. “Besides,” he said around a dry mouthful of burnt scone, “I’m going all the way, baby! Nothing’s gonna stop me now!”  
  
“Don’t get cocky. We only tied.”   
  
“Pshaw,” was America’s intelligent response.  
  
England’s scowl deepened, and he mused to himself that if his face remained this way forever, it would all be America’s fault. Such a thought was not a comfort, as that would only mean that for the rest of his life America would make fun of him.   
  
The game continued in the background, and England considered shoving the idiot’s legs off him and going off to make himself some tea. But that would require leaving the game behind. At the very least he can wait until time ticked down.   
  
Despite England’s completely soured mood, however, America continued with his babbling. Either that or he was, once again, completely oblivious to other’s moods. “I mean, it’s just great! You always go on about how you’re such a great team—even though you say that every year and always lose—and go on about how I flat-out suck but… ya know, we were equal teams yesterday, so now you can’t say shit!”   
  
England burst out laughing, partially from complete disbelief, and also partially to try and dampen America’s spirits to match England’s own. America just looked surprised rather than crushed. England patted back his hair, primly, attempting to make himself look presentable as he shot down all of America’s dreams. “We were _not_ equals.”  
  
“But we _tied_ , England. I think that makes us equal.”   
  
The face America was making would have been cute on anyone else, but England decided that with America’s stupid, idiotic baby-face he only looked slightly deranged. Or possibly insulted. Or possibly gearing up to taunt England some more. All were very real possibilities.   
  
To console himself, he attempted to ignore America while reprimanding him, focusing on the game between their opponents.   
  
“No,” England said primly, feeling the bubbling of national pride swelling in the pit of his stomach and making him want to both punch America in the face and then vomit out the window. (Neither of these desires were that attractive, as he hated the taste it’d leave in his mouth, and hated the fact that America would punch him back and send him flying after that vomit, should he punch him first.) “No, that’s not it at all.”  
  
“Um, actually, I think that’s the very definition of what happened. Cause we, uh, tied, and stuff. Ties mean we got the same score, and the same score means—”  
  
“I know what a tie is, America.”  
  
“Then you should know that we’re equal teams at the moment.”   
  
“No,” England snapped, turning his attention completely away from Slovenia and Algeria’s game. “No, that is not it at all. We are nowhere at all equal in our caliber of playing and our execution of the game.”  
  
America frowned at him, looking annoyed now. England’s mood continued to turn progressively bitter and he wished that America would just go and leave him be. Why the hell was he even here in the first place? (Obviously the answer was to annoy him.)  
  
“So… because of your caliber of playing and your execution of the game… how many points do you get for the match?”  
  
England stewed in his loathing for the grand total of ten seconds before he scoffed. “One, idiot. Learn to count.”  
  
“And how much do I get for being a country bumpkin?”  
  
“… One.”  
  
“So we both get the equal amount of points for the equal amount of goals. Kay, that’s cool. I can see how we’re not equal now.”  
  
“My goal was far superior!”   
  
“But because we both get one point each it isn’t even that we’re subjectively equal—we’re _mathematically_ equal and, therefore, on the same field. Science, England. You can’t argue with that.”  
  
“Uh huh,” England muttered, disbelieving.  
  
“So. We’re the same.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“We are _exactly_ ,” America stressed, putting another dramatic pause he always seemed wont to add, “as good as each other.”   
  
“No, no, no—”  
  
“Yes, that’s exactly—”  
  
“Your goal was horribly and embarrassingly—”  
  
“It’s scientific—”  
  
“Fuck your science—England is _scientifically_ a far better team.”   
  
“Alright, alright, alright,” America sighed, shaking his head as if he was humoring a small child—and England contemplated beating America in the head with the remote control. At least the boy seemed to be admitting defeat and letting the topic go, something England was almost gracious for. His headache could relax, perhaps. America cleared his throat, looked thoughtful for a moment, before saying, rather graciously, “ _No one_ is as good at _not_ beating the United States than England is.”   
  
England was well prepared to accept the boy’s gracious apology and his surrender, until the last addendum. England felt his eyebrows twitch and his eyes narrow dangerously.   
  
“That’s it,” he snapped, and shoved America’s legs off his lap. “Go fuck yourself, America.”   
  
“And I say to you,” America said, hopping off the couch when England made to give into his desires and beat him with the remote, “go fuck yourself the exact same amount! Because I’m sure your right hand is really missing you by now.”   
  
England threw the remote control at America and watched the boy toddle away, laughing hysterically—though not before he caught that small glimmer in the boy’s eye, which he did not want to look into. Equal indeed. Stupid, cocky bastard. He hoped he lost all his upcoming matches and finished bottom in the group. Be even worse than Algeria, who’d just lost a goal to Slovenia.   
  
“Hey, England. I have a question.” Apparently England could not be so lucky to have some peace. America seemed to have found shelter near the window, where he believed himself safe from flying objects at his head. But now he was coming back over towards England, moving cautiously, ready to dive away or tackle England if the situation called for such. It was clear he was ready for round two (or was it round five hundred?) of the mocking and insults.   
  
“The answer is ‘go fuck yourself’, now leave me in peace,” England said through clenched teeth. He was growing tired of the child’s arrogance, and wanted nothing more than to be left in peace and enjoy some football. He’d already missed enough of the game dealing with the idiot.   
  
“How does it feel,” America asked, completely ignoring the venom in England’s voice, folding his arms and leaning over the back of the couch, “to invent a game, and then lose the very game you created… to a country that, you know, doesn’t even really like the game in the first place?”  
  
England folded his arms, his lips thinning out into a crisp line.   
  
“We did not lose to you.”   
  
“Admit it,” America said, grinning. “It’s gotta hurt. Training for so long, the hope of an entire nation on your shoulders—and it all comes undone because of one massive fuck-up.”  
  
“Alright—fine, you little bastard,” England shouted, standing up and shoving America away from his couch. “Fine, yes. It feels a _bit_ like a dagger to the heart. I get it. Yes, I get your bullshit. Is there _anything else_ you wanted to ask me? Otherwise, I’m leaving.”   
  
America held his hands up in the universal sign of surrender, even though he still had that ridiculous grin of his. England wanted to choke him.   
  
“Okay, okay. Fine.” For his part, he tried to squash his shit-eating grin. “I’ll be serious for a second.”  
  
“If only I could be so fortunate,” England snapped, turning his face away from America, crossing his arms and his face flushing in anger.  
  
America moved up to him, sat down beside him. England refused to look. America poked his shoulder.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
England said nothing.  
  
America poked again. “Hey.”  
  
Still, nothing.  
  
America poked hard.  
  
“Ow,” England said, pointedly, turning to face him.  
  
America touched England’s cheek then, his smile almost fond, if such a smile could suit the boy’s face. England froze, eyes wide, before he narrowed them suspiciously, and tried to pull away from the touch. America grabbed his other hand and shook it.   
  
“You played a good game,” America said.   
  
“Hm. Fine.” England looked away. The hand on his cheek dropped away. “Thank you.”  
  
“I mean it. You played hard.”   
  
He hated America sometimes. He’d spend all this time aggravating him and making fun of him and pushing him to the edge of homicide, and then he’d go and say something actually sweet. He was torn between hugging him or just punching him, as was his earlier plan. The boy was an enigma, despite seeming so simple-minded. He hated that. He hated how hard it was for him to stay angry with him, or to just hate him outright.   
  
America waited.  
  
England stayed silent, watching the waning moments of the football game on television.  
  
America waited.  
  
He stared at England.  
  
“… What?” England finally asked.   
  
“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”  
  
“No.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He watched the change come over America’s face. He wasn’t there to mock him in person, as much as he desperately wanted to, about being two down to Slovenia, of all teams. It seemed America was on the fast track to failure, and England felt a sick kind of joy from it. Two down. It was over. Slovenia’s team was quickly asserting itself and blasting towards the top of the group. England wasn’t about to let himself fail like America had, and knowing the cocky American would be knocked down a few pegs amused him greatly.   
  
It was almost pathetic, how eagerly America’s men ran and played—never giving up, even when the situation seemed so dire. Two down. There was no way.   
  
England was already calculating the brackets for the group 16—undoubtedly he’d be facing someone, most likely not Germany. Good, it’d be good to avoid Germany, the favored winner of that group, for the time being. There was no need to repeat the fiasco of the last time they’d met. Germany really had never forgiven him for 1966. He calculated possible points, and calculated the look of crushing defeat on America’s face as he watched Donovan run towards the goal, holding the ball at an impossible angle—  
  
And scored.  
  
England stared. England listened to the eruption of vuvuzelas on the television screen, felt his face thin into an impossibly tensed expression, and clenched his pant legs as if his life depended on it.  
  
“What the fuck?” he muttered, drowned out by the scream of plastic horns. Then shook his head. “It doesn’t mean anything. American tenacity. One can almost admire it.”   
  
England shook his head.   
  
In the eighty-second minute America’s team scored again. England stared in utter shock—he’d tied it up. He’d actually tied it up.  
  
 _How the_ fuck _did he manage that?_   
  
England nearly smashed his face against the wall, but it was alright. A tie was still no good for America. Only two points. England was preparing himself to cream Algeria, so all would be set on the proper course—England dominating the group as he was meant to. His team was the greatest in the world, regardless of what other people said. He didn’t care if people called him crazy for thinking it—it was the truth.   
  
The roars were erupting louder on the television and England looked just in time to see the Americans get a third goal—and his heart dropped.  
  
And then it dropped even more when, for no discernable reason, the goal was called back. He almost felt a sick feeling of schadenfreude, until he saw America’s face—alighted, so bright, so happy. He was celebrating, arms in the air, hair clinging to a sweat-stained forehead. He’d been trying so hard, for the entire match—trying his hardest. And he watched as that bright face, that smiling expression, turned in alarm towards the referee—a look of utter confusion. The camera stayed on him, started to pan away, but England saw that face. Saw the joy give way to confusion, and then the confusion to crushing disappointment.  
  
And still America did not give up.  
  
It was almost worthy of praise.   
  
“This is not good for my nerves,” England muttered, clicking off the television. He had to focus on his own game, slotted for that evening.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“England, England, England!” America cried out a few days later, running towards him, arms out like an airplane again—what, did he think he was doing? Celebrating a goal? “England! Did you see my game against Slovenia?”  
  
“No,” England lied, turning away from him.  
  
“Liar,” America said, sticking out his tongue. “I played good, didn’t I?”  
  
England thought about it (and bit back the “you played _well_ ,” because he had a feeling that America was trying to set him up to say that). It was true that America had great spirit, his team never giving up, even when two behind at half-time. They’d come back, with fire and determination, come from behind like true underdogs and almost got a win—if not for that disallowed goal that, frankly, everyone agreed had been a bogus call.  
  
“Your goalkeeper didn’t even jump on the first goal,” England said instead of the praise he considered giving the boy for half a moment.  
  
America’s face did not fall at all, as England had silently hoped. “We got it back! We tied it up! It was amazing—but, GOD, that _goal!_ ”  
  
England gave him a look.  
  
America was chugging full-steam ahead into ‘oh woe is me’ category. “I can’t believe they disallowed that goal! I was supposed to win that game, England. We were meant to win!”  
  
“It’s a shame you can’t recuperate from disallowed goals,” England said with a disdainful sniff. “It happens from time to time. The world isn’t against you, at least in this respect. If you let yourself fall apart from a bad call, you don’t deserve to be here.”  
  
America’s ‘oh woe is me’ chagrin evaporated into ‘let’s annoy England as much as possible’ maneuvers, which, frankly, were the exact same thing. The only change was the change in expression. He adopted the expression he got when humoring small children, something that he’d been acquiring around England an alarming amount this world cup, and England did _not_ like it.  
  
“Well,” he said, in that strangely condescending voice of his. “I hope you never have to experience the crushing disappointment, England. Oh wait!”  
  
And then he grinned.   
  
“That’s what happens _every time_ you play.”  
  
“That is a gross exaggeration, I play a worthy game every game, and finish what I start—”  
  
“Just like how you finished Algeria, right?”  
  
“Will you shut the fuck up?”  
  
“Let me guess, I should go fuck myself, too?”  
  
“Yes. Look at you, learning.”  
  
And it seemed as if the conversation would end there, which England was more than comfortable with allowing. He could only handle so much of America at one time and, frankly, he did not want to deal more with the taunting and the cocky attitude. One of these days, America would have be knocked down a peg.   
  
England turned to walk away, frowning. America grinned, and he shifted. “Um.”  
  
“What now?” England asked, expecting another jab, and stopping despite everything in his mind telling him to keep going and ignore the American.   
  
America poked his foot to the ground a second, looking thoughtful, and then asked, “Do you think I can beat Algeria?”   
  
“Hm?” England asked, surprised by the smallest hint of hesitancy in America’s voice, for that one brief moment.  
  
“I need to beat Algeria, to guarantee I progress. I mean, if I tie, then that’s fine—so long as you tie, or lose.”  
  
They stared at one another.  
  
“We’re playing our games at the same time. I won’t be able to watch you.”  
  
England frowned. “I hadn’t realized you were actually watching my games.”  
  
“Sure, why wouldn’t I?” America asked, shrugging. “You said it yourself—keeping tabs on the opponents.”  
  
“Hm.” England paused. “You might beat Algeria.”  
  
America brightened.  
  
“But,” England said. “If you have any hope, you better win. I’m not about to let myself lose to Slovenia. I’ll be picking up where you failed.”  
  
America frowned, looking stung for a moment. But soon enough his bright, sunny expression was back, shit-eating grin. He rocked back and forth on his heels, looked as if there was something to say—but instead he shook his head.   
  
“Don’t fuck up, dude.”   
  
England snorted. “And what makes you think I will?”  
  
America held up two fingers. “Tied. Twice. ‘Easy wins’, remember?”  
  
“Go to hell.”  
  
“Hell, Michigan is actually very nice. It freezes over all the time, though.”  
  
England rolled his eyes. “America, that might have been funny the first time you used it—but the joke loses its charm after about five hundred retellings.”  
  
America grinned and punched England in the shoulder in a way that was probably meant to be pleasant and “bro-tastic” (America’s words, never England’s), but with America’s ungodly strength it only made England’s arm sore. He refused to rub at it, though.  
  
“I’ll take you to hell some day, old man,” America said.   
  
England turned around, made to walk away so he could rejoin his team, and prepare for the long drive to his match. He waved distractedly to America, who watched after him a second.   
  
“Hey, England?”  
  
England turned back towards America, saw the boy puff up—half expected another addition to his endless torment.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
Instead, America said, “I’m going to win this. I’m going all the way.”   
  
England watched him. “Is that so?”  
  
“Yeah,” America said, grinning. “I’m bringing it home.”  
  
“You really think you will?”  
  
America nodded, still grinning. “And after I win, I’m making everyone call it ‘soccer.’”   
  
“I’d like to see you try. But I’m glad to see you aren’t acting like you’re above the world’s most popular sport.”  
  
“I’m going to do it, England.”   
  
England snorted, then turned away. “I’ll see you at the final then, America.”  
  
And he walked away, and couldn’t figure out why he was smiling exactly.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“I won! I won! England!”  
  
England didn’t have time to prepare himself as America went crashing into him, throwing his arms around England. He even picked the shorter nation up and swung him around, laughing, his eyes wide and full of bright blue light.  
  
“I won! I won! I can’t believe it—I thought—for sure—we didn’t—in fucking stoppage time—Donovan that beautiful son of a bitch—! England, I won!”  
  
America was still spinning him around and didn’t put him back down until England whacked him on the back of the head.  
  
“I won, too.”  
  
“Yeah, but you had it in the bag like almost right away! The fucking ninety-first minute! Fuck!” America exhaled, eyes bright, body bruised. He gripped England tightly, refused to let go. He looked as if he might actually kiss England (and England hated that he kind of wanted him to). “God, I thought it was all over! We had _another_ disallowed goal, fuck! But we did it! We did it, England! We won! We’re progressing, top of the group! First time on top since the thirties!”  
  
“Yes, yes, I’m well aware of that,” England said, with a roll of his eyes. He’d have to face Germany. Terrific.   
  
America scooped England up in another hug, and this time England hesitantly returned it, patting America awkwardly on the back. God, how he loved America. Inexplicably so, inexcusably so. But he did—and the way he looked so deliriously happy only made his heart flutter for half a moment, which only grew when he realized he’d also won—they’d both won—and England was one step closer to winning this thing.   
  
“You are one lucky little upstart, America.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
It’d been a long game. It’d been a hard game. America had managed to tie it up, had managed to bring it to the extra time—and had fallen. Ghana wasted time, and she stood on the sidelines, arms crossed, looking relieved with the outcome—relieved that she would be moving on. America, meanwhile, ran desperately down the sidelines, trying to turn passes into goals, trying to even it up again—try to make it to penalties. Please, just one more chance. This time. This time for sure—  
  
But it was all for naught. The final whistle blew. America had fallen. America was out of the cup. Those cracks about going all the way—cracks at him for being an old man—cracks that he would make the world call it soccer. He’d joked, he’d laughed, he’d teased. Mockery.   
  
And it was all over, just as soon as it’d started. From the top of the group, to elimination.   
  
Around him in the stands, England listened to Ghana fans cheer, dog-pile, and carry-on. Rightfully so—they’d played a good match, a strong match. They deserved their win, deserved their triumph.  
  
He saw America slump off the field, disappear into the locker room. He felt for the boy, he really did. It hurt to be eliminated so soon after such a successful group stage. But underdogs could only go so far. Coming from behind every match was too difficult, especially beyond the group stages, where everything was more ‘do or die.’ He’d done his best, but he had lost. Ghana had played the better game, and America hadn’t even existed for the first half.   
  
He stood from the stands, debated going to visit him. Instead, he went to find Mick Jagger, who was probably still off wherever Bill Clinton was.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
The stadium was empty now, and it was only after the hubbub had died down that England chanced to look into the locker rooms. America wasn’t there, and his team was gone. England frowned, and sighed. He’d missed his chance to see the boy. He’d congratulated Ghana on her win, and she’d graciously accepted it, shaking England’s hand and wishing him luck against Germany tomorrow.  
  
England shivered. Ugh. Germany. His boys would have to work hard.  
  
He followed the hallways, heading towards the field, to breathe in a breath of fresh air. He’d have to leave soon to meet his own boys, for last minute pep talks and traveling to the stadium the day after.  
  
Once he got out onto the field, however, he saw America, alone in the center circle. Even from there, he could see the crushing defeat. The boy stood in silence, not moving. England watched, not moving, feeling as if he was intruding on something private. He watched as, silently, America tilted his head back and stared up at the sky. He had his glasses on, and from the distance he couldn’t make out America’s expression. But as soon as he thought this, he saw America sink to his knees, still staring up straight above him. And then suddenly he ducked his head, and his shoulders shook once.  
  
Oh.  
  
… _Oh._  
  
He had only seen America cry a few times, just barely—and he’d always pretended he never cried, once he’d grown up. He remembered a child’s tears, remembered the way they blotted his face. America was not beautiful when he cried. His face turned red, his face scrunched up, his expression wobbled. He was blotched, sniffly, despairing wails. He was everything he hated to see in a crying face, with nothing to find endearing. America did not cry like Hollywood. England had only seen those tears in the bleakest hours of war, in the moments when England caught America in mourning, kneeling on the grounds of Arlington. Here, America was bent over, head bowed, crying without restraint. His shoulders heaved.   
  
England felt as if his heart had lodged in his throat. He should turn around. He should leave and give America his time to grieve his failed campaign.  
  
But he couldn’t turn away from the sight of that boy crying—the sight of a such a proud, overly confident young man crying his heart out, loud wails he had never heard before. He wailed, pounded the grass—thought he was alone, thought he was alone to his grief.  
  
England licked his lips, hesitated. He started walking towards him, thought better of it, and turned around. He started walking towards the exit, then stopped. Looked over his shoulder. Saw America crying—felt his heart drop. Turned around and walked towards him. Stopped. Rinse and repeat.  
  
Eventually his Good Samaritan mentality he rarely showed to America won out and he started walking towards America. America heard him coming, and snapped his head up, his wails stopping at once. His face colored—from shame, perhaps, or from anger. He ducked his head, attempting to stand up and get away.  
  
England touched his shoulder.   
  
There was a very, very awkward silence in which England regretted his decision to offer his sympathy. Obviously America wouldn’t want it—certainly not from him. And he didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t come out as an insult. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.  
  
“How are you holding out?”  
  
“How do you think?” America muttered in a quiet voice. His voice sounded all bendy, water-logged.   
  
England sighed, frowned. He kneeled down beside America, who did not turn to look at him. He squeezed America’s shoulder.   
  
“America… I…”  
  
“Here to mock me?” America muttered. “Ha ha… you know, I probably deserve it.”  
  
He wiped at his face, and looked up at England, smiling a bit apologetically—as apologetically as the United States of America ever got.   
  
“I was kind of a dick. Got really into it. But… ha ha. Guess this is karma. Like France getting in the bottom of his group as some kind of cosmic retribution for the hand ball in Ireland.” He looked away, blinking his eyes. “O-or, you know… something. Ha ha. I got too confident. I guess. Everybody likes a Cinderella story, but it can only happen so many times, ya know?”   
  
England hesitated, saw the way America tried to grin, tried so hard to laugh it off—tried so hard to pretend that he wasn’t bawling over his failure, that he wasn’t crushed from his defeat. England swallowed the lump in his throat and tugged America towards him, without a word.   
  
He collected America in his arms, and the young nation stared up at him in shock, eyes wide and impossibly blue—and puffy.   
  
“Ah—England?” America whispered, as England hugged him for all he was worth.  
  
“It’s okay,” England said.   
  
“Um…” America began, preparing to laugh it off again.   
  
“It’s okay to cry. It’s painful. It’s painful after trying so hard, and it just wasn’t good enough.”  
  
America stared at him in shock. “England…”  
  
“Cry, if you have to. I’m not here to mock you.”   
  
America looked as if he was debating it, debating pretending that he wasn’t upset—that England was crazy and seeing things. They sat there, in the middle of the field, alone in the stadium. And then America ducked his head, felt his body shake as another sob pushed against his throat. America clung to him, pressed his face to England’s shoulder. He held his breath, trying his hardest to stop crying, even though it was already too late—he was already too vulnerable, and England had seen him. England almost wanted to kiss him, almost wanted to stroke his hair—to reassure him somehow. He didn’t know what to say, yet knew the pain of losing so badly. In the grand scheme of things, football was nothing—the world cup was nothing. Yet they all wanted it so badly. And only one person could win. Everyone else was to lose, everyone else was to feel the way it felt to lose that one determined goal.  
  
England stroked his hair. “You’re an idiot. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”  
  
“… ‘M not,” America mumbled, watery words, against his shoulder.  
  
“You did well. Your people must be so proud of you. Look at how far you made it, look at how hard you worked—footballers are trained to play for ninety minutes. It’s normal for them to fall apart after that. But you never gave up, not for one hundred and twenty minutes, America. You didn’t give up, even down to the last moment. And—” he paused, wondering where this sympathy was coming from. The idiot had made fun of him the entire world cup, had tormented and mocked him, had teased him and belittled him. And yet here he was, crying—the perfect moment to extract his revenge, the perfect moment to make fun of him for his shortcomings, for losing, for having to fly home tomorrow. Instead, he leaned in and kissed America’s temple, before he could stop himself, before he could second guess. “You played with a spirit most people will never experience.”  
  
America was quiet now, though his shoulders still shook slightly. And then America shifted his face, pressing into England’s neck.   
  
England didn’t say anything. He just held him as America clung to him, as the second wave of sadness hit him and he slumped against him, his entire body weighed down with defeat, with _I did my best, and it just wasn’t good enough._  
  
  
\---  
  
  
The next day, America was waving at him enthusiastically from the wall of supporters. He wore a cape made of an American flag, and England couldn’t tell who he was rooting for, if anyone.  
  
“You seem to be in high spirits,” was England’s greeting.   
  
“Yep,” America bubbled. “The way I look at it—I’m glad that Ghana could win and continue on to represent Africa in an African world cup, ya know? I’m fucking pissed she refused to shake my hand, though, and was kinda snooty at me after the game. But… whatever. Her boys played a good game, and so did mine—as much as I hate time wasting, Jesus fucking Christ.”  
  
He took a long drink of some kind of beer.   
  
“Besides, if I’d won I would have gotten my ass handed to me by Uruguay. And now I can watch her lose, ha ha.”   
  
“That’s a healthy way of looking at it, I suppose,” England said, with a roll of his eyes. Truthfully, he was relieved to see America back to his usual spirits. He much preferred the obnoxious stupidity to the crying mess he’d been the night before.   
  
“The entire tournament—we only led for three minutes. Three minutes! The rest of the time was either a tie or coming from behind. Three minutes, seriously. Seriously?”  
  
“What a tough break for you.”  
  
“So we’re gonna work hard. You better watch out for us in four years. This world cup gave us lots of recognition—I really think soccer’s gonna pick up in the US now.”  
  
“Football.”  
  
“Football’s already popular,” America dismissed.  
  
“That joke is about as funny as the hell one, I hope you realize.”  
  
“I’m hilarious,” America insisted.   
  
“I’m constantly amazed that I’m the only one who seems to appreciate your humor.”   
  
“Damn, you enjoy your dry wit.”  
  
“We invented it.”   
  
America sighed, shaking his head—once again, as if entertaining a small child.   
  
“So,” America said, “You gonna win this?”  
  
“Well,” England said, face prim. “It’ll be a tough match—Germany’s team is very good this year. It’ll be hard, but I believe we’ll be able to make it, if we work hard.”  
  
“Kay,” America said, taking a drink. “We all know you’re a stubborn bastard, so maybe you’re right.”  
  
England snorted. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, America.”   
  
“Hey—I thought of another joke!” America proclaimed, grinning.  
  
“Do I even want to hear it?”  
  
“Yes!” America exclaimed. “And if not, too bad, you’re hearing it anyway.” He cleared his throat, dramatically. “What’s the difference between a tea-bag and the English national team?”  
  
England frowned. “What, America?”  
  
“A tea-bag stays in the cup longer,” America said, grinning ear to ear.   
  
“I thought—never mind.”  
  
“Hey, but seriously. Good luck.” America grinned.  
  
England eyed him warily, and then said, graciously, “Thank you, America.”  
  
“And just remember,” America said, patting England on the shoulder. “If you go out there and start fighting Germany and feel a bit overwhelmed and bruised, and you need the Americans to, once again, swoop in to save your ass—know that I’m here for ya!”  
  
England glared at him and squirted America’s face with his water bottle and the boy ducked away, laughing hysterically. Flashing him a rude hand gesture, England turned on his heel and started walking away.  
  
“Good luck!” America called after him.   
  
England sighed. “Luck only has a bit to do with it.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
America whistled low when England came out of the locker room. “Damn, you got killed.”  
  
“Thank you for reminding me, I must have forgotten.” England slung his bag over his shoulder and sighed sadly, closing the door behind his depressed teammates, preparing to return home to England. America was slated to leave that evening as well.   
  
“I bet you feel stupid for making fun of my disallowed goals now, huh?”  
  
“Ours wasn’t even disallowed,” England moaned. “It wasn’t even _given._ ”  
  
“Sucks,” was America’s alarming sympathy. England really hated him. “Guess my tea-bag joke was right after all.”  
  
“I assure you that I stay in longer than a tea-bag. Unless you want cold, bitter tea.”  
  
“You take my jokes way too seriously—and that defeat was definitely cold and bitter.”  
  
“Shush.”  
  
“Did you cry?” Americas asked, and England refused to believe that he detected some concern in the boy’s voice. He sniffed disdainfully.   
  
Snidely, he muttered, “Not nearly as much as you, I assure you.”   
  
America seemed undeterred by this insult, and just said, “I bet they were big manly tears, huh?”  
  
“Go away,” England muttered, and started walking. America followed and caught up to him, walking by his side. England hadn’t expected the boy would actually go away, anyway.   
  
America hesitated for half a moment and said, “Truthfully—I was kinda hoping you’d lose.”   
  
England couldn’t disguise his hurt. He gave America a slightly strangled look.   
  
“Hey, don’t give me that face. After Mexico, you’re our biggest rival!” America protested. “It’s not cause I hate you or anything—it’s just, uh, soccer politics or something. I can’t like you on principle.”   
  
“Well,” England said, slightly vindicated to the admission, “I suppose I cannot blame you for being intimidated by me and wanting for my failure if only to better yourself.”  
  
“Naw, intimidation? Pshaw,” America said with a snorted laugh. “We just hate how damned cocky you get when clearly America is number one!”  
  
“I think Ghana would beg to differ.”   
  
“Shut up, man.”   
  
They walked in silence, and England sighed.  
  
“When is your flight?”  
  
“Tonight. Yours?”  
  
“I’m not sure. Either tonight or tomorrow.”   
  
America nodded, and they walked in further silence. England swallowed, felt the welling up of tears. He felt America shift closer, felt their elbows bump together, almost passively, fondly, and then America lifted his hand and clapped England on the shoulder. They didn’t look at one another, just kept walking.  
  
“It’s okay to be unhappy.”  
  
“Unlike you, I don’t have the fall back of ‘at least you played a good game,’” England said miserably. “That entire game was brutal.”  
  
“Germany is brutal—dude, you know how he is at meetings. There’s no way he couldn’t be the same way with his soccer.”   
  
“Football.”  
  
“Whatever.”  
  
It was cold and crisp outside, and England sighed as he let the wind shatter his face with bitter kisses. It was bittersweet, to be outside and not bathed in the sweet feeling of victory. The two stood together in failure, and the ‘misery loves company’ motif was certainly not true at all. He felt miserable, knew that despite his bravado that America was at least still unhappy.   
  
Of course, no one would know it by looking at him. He smiled and bounced on his feet. He chirped, “Hey—I just thought of another great joke.”  
  
“Do I even want to hear it?” England sighed.  
  
“Here it is,” America said, and cleared his throat.  
  
“Oh, it’s a big joke, is it? How long did it take you to think of it?” England asked, dryly.  
  
“The chance of surviving an attack from one lion is seventeen percent,” America said, gravely, though his lips twitched, suggesting the beginnings of a smile yet again. “Survival rate of being attacked by two lions: five percent.”  
  
England had no idea where this was going and frowned at him.  
  
And then America poked England in the chest, tapping the three lions on his jersey. “Percentage of survivors who survive a three lion attack? Ninety-nine percent.”   
  
There was a stilled silence.  
  
Apparently England’s expression was hilarious because America cracked up.  
  
“I hate you,” England said with a long suffering sigh.  
  
America seemed undeterred and slung an arm over England’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go watch Mexico’s inevitable ass kicking.”  
  
“You and your rivalries.”  
  
“As if you don’t get it, man.”


End file.
